


Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [27]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragon Riders, Gen, Suspense, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25991710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: When a series of preternatural afflictions strike Paris, the musketeers are forced to work with Rochefort to find the one responsible and put an end to the mayhem.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 32
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

Athos finished cinching up the straps of Savron's saddle and then turned to wait for the King to mount up first before following suit. Jean was still getting Dragor ready, but the other Musketeer dragon riders assigned to this afternoon's leisurely flight were all set to go, which happened to be Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. These weekly excursions with the King were some of the only times Athos got to ride with his brothers anymore, now that he was Captain of the Musketeers. He missed the simplicity of it. Even as Treville's lieutenant, he still never had to carry as much responsibility as he did now.

Louis was just about ready to go when Athos spotted a figure walking into the royal dragon compound. He inwardly scowled and hoped the King wouldn't notice, but alas, he did.

"Rochefort," Louis greeted, aborting his climb into Dragor's saddle. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to get a glimpse of Your Majesty's magnificent collection of dragons," Rochefort replied smoothly. "I also heard you had taken up dragon riding yourself. It is a sign of a great king to not only keep such majestic creatures but to be a true master of them as well."

Louis beamed at the compliment. "You have your own dragon, do you not, Rochefort? You should accompany me."

"It would be my honor, Your Majesty, but unfortunately my dragon is not as strong as he once was after our time in a Spanish prison. I would not want him to hold you back. Perhaps there is one from your clan I might have permission to borrow for the afternoon?"

"Of course," Louis readily agreed and turned to Jean. "Saddle Zhar for Rochefort, Bonacieux."

Jean bowed and headed for the dragon dens to retrieve said dragon.

"What happened to Falkor bein' the only dragon you'd ride?" Porthos groused quietly as he came up behind Rochefort.

The Comte ignored him, and fortunately the King didn't hear the comment, as he was busy speaking to his dragon.

Jean returned with Zhar and introduced him to Rochefort, though the man apparently couldn't be bothered to give any more acknowledgement to the dragon than he would a horse.

Athos was irked by his presence but held his tongue, as there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway. Finally they were all ready and mounted up to take to the skies.

The four Musketeer dragon riders flew in a diamond formation around the King and Rochefort as they headed away from the city and out over the woodland. Athos tried to enjoy the freedom of flying and not let Rochefort's being there ruin it for him.

They flew for a good stretch toward a small lake where they set down to give their dragons a rest and chance to refresh themselves, though they all stayed mounted.

"It's a tragedy what happened to your dragon, Rochefort," Louis commented. "Perhaps my dragon keeper Bonacieux might be able to help him. He has rehabilitated several dragons that have been wounded in war."

"You are most gracious for offering, Your Majesty," Rochefort replied. "As soon as we return, I will bring Falkor to the royal compound."

Louis nodded. "I will tell Bonacieux to provide whatever he needs."

Athos caught Porthos rolling his eyes and gave him a sharp look to knock it off lest the King notice.

"Your Majesty, if I may make an observation," Rochefort began in a careful tone.

Louis gestured for him to go on.

"Your First Minister Treville, he has no background in governing. I mean no disrespect; I am just concerned that you are receiving the best counsel possible."

Athos bristled at the veiled insult against Treville, but he knew it wasn't his place to speak out in their former captain's defense. He shot warning looks at the others to keep them quiet as well, though they were clearly as offended by Rochefort's insinuation as Athos was.

"Treville is a man of wisdom and character," Louis replied seriously. "It is true, there was much he had to learn when he took on the position, but I assure you he has done credit to the office."

Rochefort inclined his head in a conciliatory manner. "I am relieved to hear it, Your Majesty."

That was the end of that train of conversation, and since the dragons had finished slaking their thirst at the lake, the King signaled for them to return to the skies and make their way back to the city.

After landing in the royal dragon compound, the musketeers were relieved of their guard duty, as the King's personal retinue of attendants and guards were waiting where he'd left them, and they accompanied him back to the palace. Rochefort walked with him, and Athos's jaw tightened as he imagined what more disparaging comments the Comte might make as they went.

He turned and the musketeers and their dragons headed in the opposite direction to the garrison next door.

"Who does he think he is, comin' in here and questionin' the Captain's abilities?" Porthos growled. "I mean Treville's," he corrected with an apologetic glance at Athos.

Athos merely shrugged it off. Treville would always be their captain.

"Rochefort was the Cardinal's most valued agent," Aramis replied. "He likely has similar ambitions of finding favor with the King and climbing the ranks in his inner circle."

"I know Treville hates politics and didn't really want the job, but I'm glad he took it," d'Artagnan put in.

Athos had to agree.

The four of them removed the saddles from their dragons and placed them in the tack room, then Athos turned to head up to his office and the mound of paperwork that never seemed to decrease no matter how much time he put into it. But he was stopped as Aramis slung an arm over his shoulder.

"Take a night off," the marksman said. "After an entire afternoon with Rochefort, we could all use a drink."

Wasn't that the truth. Athos cast an uncertain look up at his office, then back at his friend. "Only if you assist with the paperwork tomorrow."

"I hope you're not having second thoughts about your position and are planning to pawn it off on me."

Athos smirked. "No, but I could use a secretary."

"Treville never had a secretary."

"There's always mucking out the dragon dens."

Aramis gave him a mock grimace. "Command is going to your head."

"Stop dilly-dallying," Porthos called from the gate. "Is he comin' or not?"

Athos's mouth quirked and he steered himself and Aramis that way. "That depends; are you buying?"

"Does he ever?" d'Artagnan replied with a cheeky grin.

Porthos scowled at them both. "Maybe if Lady Luck smiles upon me at the card tables."

"More like the patron saint of cardsharps," their young Gascon quipped.

Athos couldn't keep from smiling at the warm banter as the four of them headed out into the street and made their way to one of the local taverns. At least the captaincy hadn't changed the dynamics of their brotherhood. Athos needed this refuge, and not just because of Rochefort.

They arrived at the tavern and ordered their wine. Porthos spent about five minutes at the table with them before slipping off to join a card game. Aramis sipped sparsely at his wine; he'd never been the heavy drinker among them. But even Athos was content to pace himself with just the one cup rather than order a whole bottle. What could he say, there were some things being a captain did change.

"You two are growing soft in your old age," d'Artagnan commented, raising his second cup to their firsts.

"Says the one who's always bowing out early to hurry home to bed," Aramis countered.

"Yes, but not to _sleep_."

Aramis grinned.

Athos just shook his head and took another sip of his wine, only to spit it back out as a thick, coppery substance filled his mouth instead. The sharp metallic tang hit the back of his throat and almost made him gag.

"Whoa!" Aramis exclaimed, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe the front of his shirt. "What was that for?"

Athos couldn't speak, too busy pressing a fist to his mouth and trying not to retch. He gestured to his cup, which Aramis picked up with a frown.

"Don't—" Athos made an abortive sign not to taste it.

Aramis sniffed it instead, his brows furrowing further.

"What the…" d'Artagnan said, gazing into his own cup. He then jolted backward, knocking the tinware over. Dark red fluid spilled out across the table like…blood.

A scream rang out from across the tavern, followed by another. Then people all throughout the place were jumping out of their seats, knocking over cups and bottles—all of which splattered fresh blood in place of wine and brandy. There was enough of it that Athos recognized the smell, even while his brain struggled to process what was happening.

He wasn't the only one. People were twisting and turning in confusion, bumping into each other and scrambling away from the offending fluid. One man caught sight of the tavern keeper and jabbed an angry finger at him.

"What kind of business are you running here?" the man shouted.

"I don't- I…" the proprietor fumbled for an answer, looking as perplexed as the rest of them. "I don't understand."

Porthos pushed his way through the crowd to the musketeers, stopping to pick up a cup from the next table over and giving it a whiff. "Blood," he said quietly, but many heard him, and the sounds of gasps and gagging went up again.

"You bastard," that other customer cursed and started toward the tavern keeper.

Aramis stepped into his path. "We were all drinking normally a few moments ago. This man did not serve anyone tainted drink."

" _Tainted_? It's blood!" The man gestured angrily at his table.

The sound of someone violently retching in the back only served to churn everyone's stomachs more.

"Ain't this a Holy Communion thing?" Porthos put in tentatively. "Turnin' wine into blood?"

Aramis's face scrunched up. "That's not exactly how it works," he said. "Nor are we in church."

"It must be dark magic!" someone exclaimed, which sent a fresh ring of terrified yelps through the crowd, and several people started fleeing out the door, nearly bowling over each other in their haste.

"Wait—" d'Artagnan called, but it was too late.

Athos preferred not to have an anxious and angry crowd to deal with anyway.

"I swear, I don't know what happened," the tavern keeper blubbered at them. "I've never had anything to do with witchcraft, I swear!"

Aramis held up a hand to try to calm him. "We know, monsieur. If you were, I sincerely doubt you'd sabotage your own business."

The proprietor looked mildly relieved, but then his expression pinched again. "But I'm not," he insisted.

Aramis sighed and waved him off.

Athos roved his gaze around the mess, still wrestling with his gag reflex under the stench of blood. "Let's take a look around outside," he said, partly because they needed to and partly because he needed the fresh air.

They exited the tavern and split into twos, Athos and d'Artagnan going right and Aramis and Porthos going left. They scanned the street and alleyways for anything unusual, but there was no one loitering in the shadows, nor did Athos spot any occultist markings on the tavern's exterior or anywhere nearby. The only disturbance was the quickly spreading news of what had happened and Athos could hear the din of frightened citizens as they gathered in the streets a few blocks over.

He and d'Artagnan returned to the front of the tavern to meet up with Aramis and Porthos.

"Anything?" Athos asked, though based on their own search turning up nothing, he didn't expect much.

Aramis shook his head. "If anyone was here, they're long gone now."

"Could they have been inside the tavern?" d'Artagnan asked. "Got out with the rest of the crowd?"

"I think someone would have noticed if anyone was casting a spell."

"Either way," Athos said, "we won't be catching them tonight."

Porthos let out an exaggerated shiver. "I hate witches."

"You always say that," Aramis responded, though the jibe was half-hearted.

Black magic was no laughing matter.

"We'll report this in the morning," Athos said.

He'd send out patrols to determine whether this type of incident had occurred at other taverns throughout the city or just this one. Then Athos would have to figure out how his musketeers were going to hunt down a witch…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, potential trigger warning at the end of this chapter if you're squeamish about rats. Lots of rats...

There were no other incidents reported in the city, but by the time the musketeers went before the King the following morning to inform him of the singular one, word had already reached the palace.

"Ah, Athos," Louis said when he and the others were escorted into the throne room. "I've heard the most disturbing tale of wine turning to blood in a local tavern. Please tell me it has been wildly exaggerated."

"Unfortunately, it hasn't," Athos replied. "My men and I were there to witness it."

Louis stilled at that and cast a nervous look around as murmurs rippled through the gathered courtiers. "What could it mean?" he asked, suddenly seeming pale.

"Isn't it obvious?" Rochefort's voice parted the crowd. "It's witchcraft."

"That is the most likely culprit, Your Majesty," Athos said quickly. "My men and I found nothing out of the ordinary around the tavern in question last night, but we will continue to investigate."

Louis swallowed hard, then furrowed his brow in thought. "Rochefort, weren't you a witch hunter before you were imprisoned by the Spanish?"

"Indeed I was, Your Majesty," he replied. "The Cardinal's best hunter, forgive the invocation of the vile traitor."

Louis canted his head in forgiveness. "I believe we may benefit from your skills in this matter. If you would consent to work with my musketeers to hunt down this abomination."

Rochefort bowed deeply. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Athos gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was consent to work with Rochefort. Again.

But the King had spoken and this issue was of the utmost severity.

Rochefort caught Athos's eye and began to depart the throne room. His jaw working, Athos and the others turned to follow. They stopped outside where they could convene more privately about how to handle the situation.

"Since the one tavern was the only establishment struck last night," Athos began, "we should look into who might want to target the owner. Competitors. Disgruntled associates."

"Cuckolds," Porthos added with a conspiratorial glance at Aramis.

The marksman studiously ignored the comment.

"I will take charge this time," Rochefort said. "I am the witch hunter, after all."

"An' what specials skills do you have as a witch hunter exactly?" Porthos asked.

Rochefort merely fixed him with a dry glare before turning to Athos. "Which tavern did the incident occur in? I will have to examine the scene."

"We'll show you," Athos replied casually and started to lead the way. He had no intention of letting Rochefort completely take over the investigation.

Rochefort didn't put up a protest and instead wordlessly followed the musketeers from the palace to the tavern. People were giving the establishment a wide berth as they passed in the street, but several handfuls were clustered together at the end of walkways where they could safely eye the place from a distance.

Athos entered the tavern first, the others spreading out behind him. The place was empty and still a mess from the previous night. The owner looked up from where he was mopping up blood from one of the many soiled tables.

"This is the Comte de Rochefort," Athos said, gesturing to said Comte. "He'd like to take a look around."

"Oh, alright." The tavern keeper dropped the soaking rag into a bucket and simply stood there awkwardly as Rochefort casually perused the room.

The musketeers watched and waited as he trailed around tables, pausing to study the blood stains.

"Was every single drink transmogrified?" he asked.

The tavern keeper nodded. "Every last cup. Even the bottles on my shelf." He nodded over his shoulder. "Everything I got in stock, ruined."

Rochefort didn't respond and continued his circuit around the room. "You were the only one targeted in this heinous attack."

The man quirked a confused brow. "Yeah, so?"

Rochefort merely gave him a bland look and kept stalking around him, almost as though he was deliberately trying to make the tavern keeper nervous.

"Do you have any enemies?" Aramis broke in, trying to ease the tension. "Or perhaps someone who would want to harm your business? Anyone who might have hired a witch?"

The owner's brow creased in thought. "No, nothin' like that. A few patrons get riled up sometimes when it's time to pay up or they lose at cards, but none of them would have enough money to pay a witch to remove a wart."

"Perhaps you grew tired of putting up with those miscreants," Rochefort interjected. "You thought of a way to get revenge on them."

Athos narrowed his eyes on Rochefort.

"Hey now," Porthos spoke up. "What exactly are you accusin' the man of?"

"I'm merely proposing a possible explanation for what happened," Rochefort replied. "There were no other victims and you yourselves found no trace of a witch outside the establishment."

"I would never!" the tavern keeper cried, his face blanching in horror. Even accusations of witchcraft held very severe consequences. "Why would I want to sabotage my own business? No one will want to come here again after what happened. My livelihood is ruined!"

Rochefort remained unfazed by the declaration of innocence and instead bored his unyielding gaze into the man until sweat broke out on the poor proprietor's forehead.

"We don't believe you had anything to do with this," Athos said firmly, his own gaze fixed sternly on Rochefort until the Comte finally broke eye contact with the tavern keeper. Athos turned to the man. "I'll send some men to keep an eye on your place this evening, in case it's targeted again."

The tavern keeper ran a hand down his graying face. "There's nothing left to target, save me. No customers are gonna be comin' in here again."

"I think you'll find a small handful who are curious and want to see the place for themselves will brave it," d'Artagnan said.

"Not like I got anything to serve 'em," the owner muttered.

"We'll let you get back to…work," Athos said, shooting Rochefort a sharp glare.

The Comte cast one last intimidating look at the tavern keeper before nonchalantly walking out with the rest of them.

"Is that what you call investigating?" Aramis said tersely once they were outside. "Weaving a tale so the first person you see is guilty?"

"It was a legitimate line of questioning," Rochefort responded. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a look around some shops in the district, see if any are selling illicit occult items. Unless, of course, you intend to keep shadowing me?"

"Go," Athos said before tempers could flare any further. There was only so much of Rochefort he could take himself anyway.

Rochefort was practically oozing smugness as he turned and strode away.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Now, we watch and wait," Athos replied.

"There isn't more we can do?"

Athos shrugged. "Hunting witches was never really part of the Musketeers' purview. The Cardinal had men like Rochefort for that."

"When was the last time there was even an incident of witchcraft in the city?" Porthos asked.

"The Cardinal put the fear of God—or Hell to be more precise—into anyone practicing witchcraft," Aramis answered. "No one would dare while he was in power in Paris."

One good thing Richelieu had done for the people.

"So," d'Artagnan spoke up after a brief moment, "with him gone, does that mean we might be seeing more of this type of thing in the future?"

They all exchanged grim looks at that frightening notion.

"We have to put a stop to this one," Athos said. "And if that means we have to work with Rochefort to do so…" He exhaled in vexation. "So be it."

.o.0.o.

When d'Artagnan arrived home that night, he saw Rochefort's dragon had moved into one of the available dens of the compound. He bristled with indignation just from the mere association with that despicable man, but d'Artagnan immediately chastised himself for it; he couldn't blame Falkor for being saddled with such a horrible human being as a rider.

He headed into the house and found Constance sitting in a rocking chair reading.

"Hey," he greeted, leaning over to kiss the top of her head.

She set her book aside and turned her head up, so he bent down further to kiss her on the mouth.

"Did you find anything on the witch?" she asked in concern.

"Nothing. Rochefort had the audacity to simply accuse the tavern owner of causing the mayhem that's probably ruined his business for good."

Constance frowned. "You don't like him."

D'Artagnan snorted. "No, I don't. I knew he used to be the Cardinal's man, but turns out he was also the Cardinal's witch hunter." He shook his head. "I know black magic is evil, but I've also met some witches who weren't. I don't think Rochefort believes there's a distinction."

Constance reached out and squeezed his hand. "Well, I don't think someone who turns a bunch of wine that people are drinking into blood can be anything but evil."

"True," he conceded. "Has Jean looked at Rochefort's dragon?"

Constance nodded solemnly. "The wounds Falkor received are so old and healed badly, there's nothing my father can really do for him."

D'Artagnan felt a pang of sympathy for the dragon. "At least here he'll finally receive some gentle care."

Constance nodded and stood up to blow out the candles. Then the two of them went to bed. Despite d'Artagnan's joke to Aramis and Athos the other night, they did go right to sleep.

D'Artagnan woke the next morning to something tickling his cheek. His arms were wrapped around Constance and in his half dozing state he thought it might be one of her stray curls, so he disentangled one arm to reach up and brush it away. Something squeaked. D'Artagnan's eyes were still closed so he ignored it.

Constance shifted in his embrace, then suddenly bolted upright with a high-pitched scream. D'Artagnan jolted awake, flailing in place as his hands reflexively went for weapons he wasn't wearing. Constance kept shrieking, and d'Artagnan finally saw what was wrong—the room was full of rats. Several were scurrying across the floor, and d'Artagnan suddenly became aware of the three on the bed with them. He grabbed a pillow from behind and started whacking it at the rodents to bat them off the mattress.

Jean came running into the room barefoot, only to backpedal immediately as the rats went skittering from the room and down the hall.

D'Artagnan dropped the pillow and whirled toward Constance, capturing her face in his hands and looking her over intently. "Were you bitten?" he asked urgently.

She shook her head, a terrified mewl still trying to escape past her lips. D'Artagnan wanted to stay and comfort her but his soldier instincts were kicking in. He shoved his feet into his boots and snatched up his weapons belt before running after the vermin, not sure whether he should shoot or stab them.

The rats had fled the house, but as d'Artagnan chased them out into the yard, he pulled up short in shock and dismay at the sight of dozens of them scurrying around the compound. Ayelet was flapping her wings and hovering in the air to avoid them while small puffs of fire exuded from some of the dragon pens.

Dragon shrieks sounded from the garrison next door, and d'Artagnan bolted into a run for it, heedless of the fact he was still in his underclothes. He found more rats overrunning the place. Dragons were kicking them away or trying to stomp on them while musketeers were fleeing from their beds, followed by rats scurrying out of the barracks. Where the hell had they all come from?

The sea of vermin veered away from the dragon dens and started squeezing through cracks in the garrison wall to spill out into the street. It was only a few moments before people outside started screaming.

A pistol shot cracked the air, and d'Artagnan spun toward where Porthos, standing in the yard in his underclothes, held a smoking pistol pointed at a now dead rat. The two of them shared bewildered looks as more musketeers, roused abruptly from their beds, looked around in shock. Even Athos looked mussed as he stood on the balcony gaping in stupefaction at the exodus of rodents.

There was a stunned silence that settled over the garrison after the initial shock was over, even though screams continued to echo distantly from the streets.

D'Artagnan exchanged taut glances with the others. He didn't know if this qualified as witchcraft, but it seemed whoever was behind it was only getting started.…


	3. Chapter 3

The garrison was in complete disarray as half clothed men nervously ventured back into the barracks to collect themselves. Most of the rats had vacated the premises but a few were still scurrying around. Athos let the dragons take care of those. Unfortunately, there wasn't much that could be done for the streets outside, which were mostly too narrow for dragons to go hunting rats down. Although…

"D'Artagnan," Athos called.

The young Gascon stopped on his way back to the dragon compound, looking as rousted from bed as the rest of them.

"Ayelet is still pretty lean," Athos said when he reached him. "She could do a sweep of the neighborhood, take care of any rats in the street."

D'Artagnan nodded. "Sure. But…there were so many. You don't want her trying to hunt down all of them, do you?"

Athos grimaced at the too fresh memory of what had to be at least one hundred rodents. "Hopefully they'll find their way out of the city or back underground. Just take out any stragglers you find. I'm sure people have enough to contend with in their homes."

D'Artagnan blanched slightly at that, but he gave a quick nod and headed back to the dragon compound.

Athos turned to survey his own garrison and spotted Pierre and Christophe hurrying through the front gate. They'd been assigned to watch the tavern last night.

"Athos," Christophe said breathlessly. "There was…" His face scrunched up like he didn't know how to explain it.

"I know," Athos said and gestured to a few rat carcasses lying about. "They're sweeping though the city?"

His men nodded.

"Like a sea of vermin," Pierre added. "What could have caused this?"

"Nothin' natural," Porthos answered as he and Aramis walked over to them, properly dressed now. "Never seen anythin' like it in my life, not even in the Court of Miracles, an' we had our share of rats down there."

"Perhaps they felt the presence of dark magic and…responded," Aramis speculated.

Athos didn't think so. This strange occurrence was too similar to the blood at the tavern. "Did anything happen on your watch last night?" he asked Christophe and Pierre.

Christophe shook his head. "It was all quiet there."

"Then perhaps the tavern keeper was not the target after all," Aramis surmised.

"I agree," Athos said. "These incidents seem like they were intended to produce mass panic and fear."

"So we're dealin' wit' someone who has a wicked sense of humor," Porthos commented grimly. "What's next? Beetles in our food?"

Each of them cringed in disgust.

"Thank you for that image, Porthos," Aramis remarked dryly.

"Someone get Rochefort down here," Athos said loudly, and the stableboy quickly darted off. He turned back to Christophe and Pierre. "Get some rest," he ordered. "But…" he grimaced, "do a thorough search of your rooms first."

"I'll help you," Aramis said and went off with them.

Athos and Porthos retrieved some shovels and started helping scoop the rat carcasses into a pile to burn. They had cleared the entire yard by the time Rochefort arrived, and by then Athos's vexation was mounting.

"I take it from this latest attack that you didn't find anything yesterday," Athos said scathingly.

"Unfortunately, no," Rochefort replied blandly.

Porthos snorted derisively. "Some witch hunter," he muttered.

Rochefort sharpened his vitriolic gaze on him. "I don't currently have the tools of my trade, but I've sent for them, and once they arrive I will be able to track this witch more effectively."

Athos turned away to hide his scowl, only to find Etienne jogging up to him. The musketeer looked unnerved and worried.

"Captain, the well is dry. All we've been able to bring up is sand."

Athos's brows shot upward in dismay. This couldn't be happening.

"Alright," he said, trying to regain his composure and take charge. "Send out men to check the rest of the city. We need to know how widespread this is before we can decide what to do." He spun back to Rochefort. "Your tools better arrive soon."

Rochefort didn't appear fazed in the slightest and nonchalantly turned to walk away.

Athos reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"You know," Porthos spoke up quietly, "I ain't ashamed to admit I'm startin' to get a mite freaked out here."

Athos didn't blame him. There would be a lot of terrified people in the city, and that was just going to make matters worse.

"Captain Athos," a new voice spoke, and he turned to see what it was now.

"The King wants to see you," the palace servant said. "Immediately."

Athos suddenly wondered if the Louvre had been overrun with rats as well. He could just imagine the panic Louis would be in if that was the case.

He turned to Porthos. "Aramis might get that promotion after all," he commented dryly before heading to the palace.

"After this, who'd want it?" Porthos's wry comment followed him out.

Athos made his way to the Louvre where he was immediately escorted into one of the private libraries where the King and Minister Treville were waiting for him.

"Athos, what are these new incidents I'm hearing of?" Louis demanded.

Athos held himself stiffly as he answered. "It appears an outpouring of rats filled the garrison overnight, Your Majesty. I apologize for not coming sooner but my men are still ascertaining how widespread it was. Was the palace struck as well?"

"Thank God, no," Louis said, voice tinged with horror. "But this cannot go on!"

"The Musketeers are doing everything they can," Athos assured him.

"Make sure they are," Louis snapped.

"What about Rochefort?" Treville put in. "He does, after all, have experience in these matters."

Athos hesitated. While part of him wouldn't mind casting the blame on Rochefort for failing to perform as promised, he didn't want to diminish the King's trust in his Musketeers by doing so.

"Rochefort claims he is waiting for special instruments to help him hunt the witch responsible," Athos said honestly.

"We cannot abide these blatant acts of sorcery to continue," Louis rambled, still stuck on his previous point. He spun toward Athos, expression taut with fear. "My position has been tenuous enough as is after the Cardinal's betrayal; I cannot let the people think he truly was the power keeping France secure."

"I understand, Your Majesty," Athos replied.

Louis's face scrunched up in distress further before he finally whirled and swept out of the room.

Athos and Treville shared grim looks.

"The well in the garrison is also dry," Athos said, realizing he'd failed to mention that to the King in his report.

Treville exhaled heavily. "The King is not wrong; the Cardinal was the main force keeping witchcraft out of the city. In the early days of his witch hunters, they showed no mercy."

"I remember." Athos had never been directly involved in any incidents, but he'd heard tell of them. Tales so abhorrent that it was little wonder witches were hated and feared.

"Sir," he went on hesitantly. "We're not equipped for this." Athos was loath to admit it, but he was out of his depth here.

Treville nodded sagely. "The Musketeers have never had to directly deal with the threat of black magic, but I saw it in my early days of soldiering and I will tell you this—a witch's greatest power is convincing mortals their magic makes them invincible and us helpless. It's not true. Yes, their arsenal is greater and they work in the shadows, but they can be stopped."

Athos nodded in acknowledgement of the captain's wisdom. He just hoped they found a solid lead soon, before the entire city was brought to its knees.

.o.0.o.

Constance cringed as she batted yet another dead rat across the yard with a broom toward the pile that was accumulating. At least these ones were dead. She shuddered at the awful memory of live ones in her bed. She didn't know if she'd be able to sleep in her bedroom tonight. She didn't know if she'd be able to sleep anywhere until this horrible witch was caught.

She looked up from her work and startled at the sight of the Queen walking toward her. "Your Majesty!" she exclaimed, then grimaced at the pile of carcasses not three feet from her skirts. "I'm sorry for the state of the compound…"

"I heard what happened," Anne said. She glanced down at the rats and looked sickened, but quickly smoothed her expression as she wrenched her gaze back to Constance. "I came to see if you were all right."

"Oh, yes. I'm just a little shaken up."

"We all are," Anne replied. "But I'm sure Rochefort will find whoever is responsible and the city will be safe again soon."

"Rochefort," Constance repeated. "Right."

Anne furrowed her brow. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she said hurriedly.

"Constance."

She winced at the Queen's tone. "He just seems a rough man, is all," she hedged.

Anne frowned sadly. "He's been through a great deal. I imagine that would take a toll on anyone. He deserves our compassion while he readjusts to being a free man."

"Of course," Constance was quick to agree, though internally she wasn't so sure. She trusted d'Artagnan's and the other musketeers' judgement.

Anne's gaze shifted past Constance's shoulder. "Is that Rochefort's dragon?" she asked.

Constance turned and spotted Falkor lying in the back of the compound by himself. "Yes."

She followed the Queen across the yard as Anne went to get a look at him. Falkor's eyes tracked them but otherwise he made no acknowledgement of their presence.

"The poor thing," Anne commented. "He's been through a lot as well."

Constance couldn't disagree with that.

Falkor got to his feet then, only to turn his back on them and limp to the other side of the compound where he plopped down again.

"He's been like that since he arrived," Constance said. She bit her lip before adding, "Some creatures just don't want kindness."

"We'll just have to be patient with him," Anne resolved. She forced a smile on her face as she turned her attention away from the sullen dragon. "And how is Beltane?"

"He's doing well," Constance replied. "If you'd like to see him…"

Anne's smile turned genuine. "I would like that."

Constance nodded and led the way to the dens, making a mental note to send one of the dragons out to incinerate that pile of rats before the Queen walked back that way…

.o.0.o.

D'Artagnan slogged into the garrison that evening and slumped wearily onto the bench seat at the table under the captain's office. It'd been a hell of a day, not counting the rat infestation, which, after a few hours, had thinned out as the rodents retreated to whatever hole they'd crawled out of to begin with. But that had just been the beginning. Every well for ten city blocks was dry, plunging the neighborhood into even more disarray. D'Artagnan wondered why the witch hadn't dried out the entire city, though maybe they weren't powerful enough for that.

In any case, the chaos from that had kept the musketeers busy all day long. The needs of the garrison's dragons were too great for them to vie with citizens for water in the lower part of town where the wells were untouched, so d'Artagnan and some other riders had taken a group of them with buckets outside of Paris to the nearest large source of water and proceeded to ferry a supply back. It'd taken hours but at least the garrison was stocked for a couple of days. Assuming the witch didn't come back and wipe out what they'd collected.

After that, d'Artagnan had gone on some patrols throughout the city, but nothing else out of the ordinary had happened, thank goodness.

Aramis sat down beside him and poured him a cup of wine. D'Artagnan automatically accepted it, but then stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth. Grimacing, he set it down again. Aramis gave him a sympathetic look, yet he didn't pour himself a cup.

Athos and Porthos came over a few moments later.

"Those little vermin managed to chew through several pieces of dragon tack last night," Porthos groused as he took a seat beside them. He picked up the cup of wine and knocked back a swig without compunction.

D'Artagnan almost groaned; that'd be expensive to replace.

"We're fortunate no one was bitten," Aramis put in, always trying to look on the positive side.

Athos inclined his head in agreement, and d'Artagnan was massively relieved about that too. He stood up, realizing he should get back to Constance. He hadn't had a chance to see her all day and she was probably still upset about what happened.

A massive gust of wind abruptly whipped through the yard with a whistling howl, and every single torch and lantern was snuffed out. Even the candles sitting behind closed windows went dark. It was over as quickly as it'd come, the air settling and an eerie gloaming swallowing the garrison in its deepening shroud.

Everyone remained frozen where they stood or sat, exchanging unnerved looks. If d'Artagnan didn't know better, he'd say it felt like they were being called out.

But how did they respond to an invisible enemy who refused to make themselves known?


	4. Chapter 4

Everyone was on edge the following morning. Though nothing had occurred overnight, they were all just waiting for the next attack. When Rochefort strode into the garrison, it grated Athos's nerves even further.

"We will soon put an end to this blasphemous heathen," Rochefort announced. In his hand he held what looked like a compass, but instead of one needle to point North, it had several spread out almost evenly, save for two swaying slightly.

"What's that supposed to do?" Porthos asked skeptically.

"It detects disruptions in the natural order. As you can see now, it's already picking up the resonance of the curse upon the water supply. The closer we get to the witch, the more the needles will align and lead us directly to her."

"Then let's go," Athos said tersely.

They set off, Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, trailing Rochefort as he took the lead meandering through the streets of Paris trying to get his device to pick up on anything. The musketeers watched him and his compass like hawks. Occasionally Athos saw one of the other needles begin to vibrate, and Rochefort would pause and turn in a slow circle until it started to drift toward the other pointers. Then he'd march off on their new heading.

They wove through the city for over two hours like this. Porthos was becoming impatient, grumbling under his breath about how Rochefort was just leading them on. While the search was definitely tedious, Athos didn't expect a witch to make it easy for them.

Finally, the compass's arrows all aligned outside a boarding house.

"You sure this is the right place?" d'Artagnan asked.

"It is," Rochefort replied and strode toward the front door.

The musketeers followed.

Rochefort entered the establishment with such a force of presence that the few people in the taproom immediately went silent. "Everyone remain where they are," he commanded. "By order of the King."

Annoyed, Athos pushed past him and in a calmer tone said, "Who is the manager?"

An older woman with wizened features and gray hair tucked into a bonnet moved out from behind the serving counter. "I am. What can I do for the King's Men?"

"Are you aware your boarding house is a center of magical activity?" Rochefort asked, slowly sweeping his shrewd gaze around the room.

The woman blanched. "You're mistaken. I run a decent business. Ain't none o' that black magic stuff here."

"Then you would have no objection to us searching the place," Rochefort rejoined, his deadly expression daring her to refuse.

She swallowed hard. "Some of my guests might take offense to that."

"They shouldn't," Rochefort replied loudly, glancing around the room. "Unless they have something to hide."

A few people fidgeted in their seats but no one spoke out against him. Rochefort turned and started up the stairs. Athos nodded for Porthos and Aramis to go with him.

"Have you had any strange guests stay here recently?" he asked the owner.

The woman shook her head. "No. But it's none of my business what my lodgers get up to."

"Anyone else notice anything strange around here?" d'Artagnan asked the people hunched over their food and drink at the tables.

No one answered or even looked up.

Athos kept an eye on them as d'Artagnan started to look around behind the bar. But he didn't appear to find anything.

A few minutes later, the others returned from upstairs. Aramis caught Athos's eye and gave a subtle head shake—they hadn't found anything either.

"Our apologies for the intrusion," Athos said to the woman.

"We are not done," Rochefort snapped. "The witch is here; my instrument proves it." He held up the compass, its many arrows all still aligned.

"Perhaps it is picking up the resonance and the culprit has already left," Aramis suggested.

"No. She is here. I can feel it."

The musketeers exchanged silent looks as Rochefort fiddled with some knobs on his compass. He strode around the taproom, watching the arrows earnestly, then turned abruptly and headed past the bar counter.

"What's behind this door?" he demanded.

Athos moved a few feet so he could see it.

"That's just the cellar," the woman answered. "There's nothin' down there but stores."

"Open it."

She skittered over to him and reached above the door frame to retrieve a key that was sitting up on the small ledge. Her hands shook as she fumbled to fit it in the lock, but given Rochefort's intimidating demeanor, Athos couldn't fault her for being nervous.

She finally got the door open and Rochefort thrust his arm out to push her back so he could go down first. He then gestured sharply at d'Artagnan standing near the bar.

"Light," he ordered, like the musketeers were his own personal lackeys.

D'Artagnan flicked a dry scowl at Athos before grabbing a lantern and bringing it over to the Comte. Rochefort headed down the steps into the dark cellar, and the musketeers followed, along with the boarding house manager. They all drew to a stunned stop at the bottom, however, when the light from the lantern lit up the darkened space and cast its illumination over a myriad spread of occultist items. A small table stood in the middle of the room with a vivisected rat carcass splayed in the center. Next to it was a goblet with a dark, thick substance. Athos grimaced as he moved closer to examine it. Coagulated blood. He felt his gorge rise and turned away before he could be sick.

There were other things hanging from shelves and beams around the room—small animal bones, feathers, what looked like totems. It was a witch's lair, no doubt about that.

Rochefort turned to the owner of the house. "It seems I was right," he said smugly.

The woman's mouth hung open as she gaped at the scene in horror. "I don't know how this happened," she exclaimed. "One of my guests must have snuck down here, probably during the night when the house was asleep."

"Or perhaps it's yours," Rochefort countered.

Her eyes widened. "No! I swear it! Question my guests again. It must be one of them—"

Rochefort whipped out a dagger and plunged it into her chest, cutting off her pleas with a ragged, choking gasp.

The musketeers all reflexively drew their swords in response, but it was too late. Rochefort pulled his blade out and the woman's body dropped to the floor.

"What have you done?" Athos seethed.

Rochefort calmly pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his dagger clean. "The sentence for witches is death. You all know that."

Athos moved forward and shoved him hard against the wall. "She should have had a trial!"

Rochefort's eyes flashed dangerously before they were carefully masked behind that callous exterior once again. "Taking her prisoner would have only given her a chance to work more of her dark magic. The evidence is irrefutable," he said, gesturing to the witch's altar. "There was no need for a trial."

"That is not for you to decide," Athos snapped. He forced himself to take a calming breath and step back. "The King will hear of this."

Rochefort smoothed out the front of his coat. "Yes, he will." He moved past Athos, pausing to cast a disparaging look at the body. "Make sure you burn the witch's remains," he lobbed over his shoulder. "The black forces must be purged completely."

With that, he marched up the steps and out of the cellar, leaving the musketeers the messy business of cleaning this up. Athos clenched his jaw as he sheathed his sword.

"I wonder why she did it," d'Artagnan mused out loud.

Porthos snorted. "Who knows wit' witches."

Aramis knelt next to her body and reached out to close her eyes. "It's between her and God now," he said sagely.

.o.0.o.

They burned her body and all her occult items with dragon fire. Athos had wanted Rochefort sharply reprimanded for his brash behavior in the cellar, but as the Comte had said, the evidence against the woman was pretty damning. In addition, the day after her death, the wells in the city were restored, and no more strange occurrences had been reported. It seemed clear to everyone that the woman was guilty, and Rochefort's swift dealing of the witch was met with praise rather than admonition.

"Excellent work, Rochefort," the King congratulated when they'd all assembled before the throne after things had returned to normal. "Paris is safe thanks to your brave efforts."

Rochefort bowed graciously. "It is my honor to serve, Your Majesty."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Louis said. "Because I could use a man of your talents. If you are agreeable, I will name you the official witch hunter of my Council."

Rochefort inclined his head again. "I accept your magnanimous offer, Your Majesty."

There was a round of applause from everyone except the musketeers. While Rochefort had been instrumental in finding the witch, none of them had liked the way things had ended. But there was nothing they could do about his position now. Hopefully this one witch would be a lone occurrence and no others would dare encroach on the city again.

"I could use a drink," Porthos grumbled as the musketeers left the palace after Rochefort's crowning glory.

Athos started to open his mouth to agree but then quickly snapped it shut with a grimace.

"You can't abstain forever," Aramis said with a sympathetic look his way. "Or, you could. But that would make you even more grumpy than usual."

Athos shot him a dry look. It was true, though; he couldn't let this one incident poison him against wine forever.

"Maybe we should pick a different tavern, though," d'Artagnan suggested.

"And help our regular one go out of business?" Aramis countered.

"It's currently out of drink, remember?" Porthos put in.

"I have a bottle in my office," Athos said. He'd rather have a night in, anyway.

The others exchanged a look, then nodded their agreement.

They walked back to the garrison and up to the captain's office. Athos went to retrieve the wine bottle and some cups from the bottom drawer of his desk. He paused as d'Artagnan meandered around the room, leaning over to peer into nooks and crannies.

"Sorry," the young Gascon said. "Just checking."

Aramis and Porthos sent skittering looks around the room at that.

But there were no rats, and the liquid Athos poured into the cups smelled sweet and was the color of mulberry, not blood. They each took a cup, and they each hesitated before raising them to their lips. Aramis sniffed his first, while d'Artagnan dipped a finger into his. Then they all exchanged nervous chuckles at themselves and raised their cups in a silent toast before knocking back hearty swigs.

Athos reflexively cringed when the drink splashed into his mouth, but then he closed his eyes and let himself savor the fine taste of wine as it should be. He shared a smile with his brothers and the four of them finally settled in for a leisurely evening spent in good company, forgetting for a time the trouble brewing outside.

But whatever came their way, they'd handle it. Just like they always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> The dead are prowling the streets of Paris, which can only be the work of a necromancer. Can the Musketeers find and stop them before they end up in their own graves?


End file.
